


A Single Star

by demonfox38



Category: Lupin III
Genre: A Crapsack World, A Shitshow Rodeo, Also there's a Lupgoe tone that I whoopsy-doodled in there, Audience Deception, But it may take a while to find, Crime Scenes, Gen, It's not living with TWCFM/Koike but they're definitely in the same apartment complex, Texas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:53:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,207
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25897747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demonfox38/pseuds/demonfox38
Summary: Detective Zenigata is called to turbulent Vesparcita, Texas to find out what Lupin is planning to steal from a silent auction. It becomes all too clear to Zenigata that a greater crime is happening in its midst. How can he keep the cap on a volcano about to blow? Can he forgive one crime to stop another?
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18





	1. Chapter 1

It was impossible for Detective Zenigata to not feel like a bad guy with hundreds of people screaming at him.

His stubborn jaw closed, locking his head forward. The protestors weren't mad at him, specifically. They were mad at corruption, at a world turned upside-down, at a sprawling, cancerous inequality. The only way Zenigata could see their point better was if he drew his eyeballs out of his skull, watched the roaring crowd from meters above his head. There he was, marching shoulder to shoulder with the police force of Vesparcita, sweeping up on red velvet carpets while the protestors were pushed to the side.

He couldn't ignore their cries. Not when they reached out and snatched him by the coat.

" _¡Ayúdeme!_ " Huge brown eyes held his gaze as tightly as the fingers latched onto his arm. " _¡Ayúdeme!_ "

"Hey!" One of the cops broke from Zenigata's side, snaring the pleading man. "Let him go!"

"Wait a moment!" Zenigata held his hand over the man's fingers, his grasp firm but gentle. "Do you need help?"

"Yes! Yes! Help!" Fear had the hapless man tangled between two tongues. " _Mi hermana_ —I, I can't find her! Two weeks _,_ and I can't—I can't _—_ "

The rest of his plea went up in a piercing scream.

Cops peeled the man from Zenigata's shadow. Snapping metal around his wrists cut as sharp as the end of a knife. Zenigata stood forlornly as two policemen took the crying man away, hot and chilled simultaneously. He drew up his jacket's collar, slinking with a less than impressive march to the top of the stairs. It was getting harder to travel within the United States all the time. More languages. More unrest. Pain so new that Zenigata didn't even have the word for it.

There was a phrase he'd learned. All cops are bastards. And boy, didn't he feel like one.

Ushers in white gloves parted French doors for the glowering police force. Dread and doubt kept Zenigata's head down, his eyes tracing the stars of flags repeated in the floors. This wasn't the garish flag of the United States. It was boiled down, simplified, left with a single star. That same name hovered over the museum's lobby in abraded letters. The Single Star Museum. Simple. To the point. Fading.

Zenigata sighed, then straightened his shoulders. Even as chaos and corrosion rotted the museum away, it still had its glories. All around him were stately columns, pedestals with marble tops, tropical flowers and fronds planted along massive glass windows. The Single Star wasn't just a museum. It was a palace, decked floor to ceiling with lights, art, people.

More brilliant than that was the smirk from one attendant. Such a sparkle flashed like a flare over a dark sea. Zenigata grimaced once again. If her slim grin wasn't a dead giveaway, the heavy ballistics she packed in her bra were. Lupin's partners were in the mix. It was only a matter of time until Zenigata spotted them all.

A few quick words were enough to grab his attention. "Detective Zenigata, welcome."

Opulence personified picked like ice in the detective's side. His greeter was entirely too well put together, especially for such a stressful situation. Maybe his job required it. Maybe sweating was beneath him. Cleaning a suit as white as his guest's would have cost Zenigata a month's worth of his salary. He didn't even want to start speculating on how much this man spent on tanning salons, cosmetic orthodontia, and Brylcreem.

"Good evening, Mister Ferreira." Zenigata took his greeter's hand. It was hard not to feel embarrassed with how rough his skin was against silk gloves. "Quite the party you're throwing."

"Indeed." The sourness in his fox-sharp grin did not escape Zenigata. "I'm sure you've met some of our…guests."

Zenigata swallowed his sigh. "Yes."

"Try not to concern yourself with them. The local police will be more than able to handle them." With that, Ferreira snapped a card from inside his suit's blazer. "I need you to focus on this."

Oh, yes. Zenigata knew what this was. The red and pink back, the spray of diamond tiling, elegance ruined with a face romantic only to monkeys. He flipped it over, finding a peanut-shaped scribbling of that mug on the other side. Zenigata flicked it, sniffed it, lifted it to the light of the chandeliers over his head. Yep! This was a genuine calling card from Lupin.

Across its plain face, the thief scrawled his demands in fluid loops.

A spring view is worth 10,000 ryō,  
But what's mine is worth more, don't you know!  
Come midnight tonight,  
Don't put up a fight.  
Let me take what is mine and I'll go!

"This appears to be Lupin's work, alright." With that, Zenigata tucked the card into his jacket. "It's awfully vague, though. Usually, Lupin names his target."

Slim eyes lifted, flashing confidence. "Surely, if anyone knows what Lupin will do, it is you."

For most detectives, that was a bragging point. For Zenigata, not as much. He'd hunted Lupin to the edges of the Earth, straight out into the atmosphere itself. Maybe it stung, not being able to hold him for long. But, he'd done better than any other cop on the planet.

Besides—there was something just as satisfying about the hunt as catching him. It was just not a reward most people understood. Certainly, not Zenigata's superiors.

The detective pushed his hands into his pocket, rocking on his heels. "Well, why don't you show me what you think Lupin would want? A little tour of the place should get the wheels spinning on your case."

"Of course." With that, Ferreira beckoned him over. "Please, follow me."

Ferreira was a white knife in a black sea, cutting through patrons and police alike. More hovered around stairwells, restrooms, drink carts, and buffets. As busy as it was outside, it was doubly so within the Single Star. Just as noisy, too. The tuttering of blue bloods, the high, round laughter of ladies, the baws and gaffaws of men with long jowls. It was just the sort of noise for a thief to slip silently through. Perhaps join, if they had the stones.

Lupin wasn't working with just rocks. He had emeralds, diamonds, boulders hidden in his skinny little body.

Scrolling doorframes parted to the night sky. Zenigata stared around him, his stomach sinking. This room was indefensible. Its walls and ceiling were glass, its sides flanked with lush courtyards. He could just see the red flare from a sniper rifle bouncing from frame to frame, the absolute glee splitting over a crescent moon beard. For Lupin's right-hand man, this was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Zenigata tipped his head back. "What is this?"

"A silent auction."

"No. Sorry. I meant this room." Zenigata's ears burned. "It seems very…impractical."

Ferreira nodded. At least he was humble enough to admit what was ostentatious. "It used to be a solarium." Annoyance tinged his explanation. "It leaks, and some of the tiles are chipped, but it is useful on clear nights like tonight."

Zenigata shrugged his shoulders. "Still looks fancy to me."

"Yes. Well. It's not something the city could keep up." With that, Ferreira waved Zenigata's congenialities aside. "Come. Have a look at what's available. If you can see the value in a place like this, perhaps you can tell me what would attract the attention of Lupin the Third to something as sad as this little foreclosure."

What didn't Lupin like? Money. Jewelry. Mystical artifacts. Paintings. Sculptures. Fancy clothing. Fancier women. All of that and more was splayed around the detective, each artifact surrounded by torn paper and black boxes. If Zenigata had to agree with Ferreira on anything, it was the sorry state of this sale. It was bad enough when a family lost their house. For a city to lose their only museum? It was nothing less than communal amnesia, a skull being picked clean by vultures.

No wonder people outside were upset.

"How long has it been this bad?" Zenigata asked.

"Decades," Ferreira admitted.

"What a shame."

"Indeed. But, with any luck, I can recoup some losses and repurpose this place as something new." A sharp eyebrow slanted towards Zenigata's face. "Assuming you're able to prevent a loss, of course."

Right. As much as Zenigata hated to admit it, losing focus was going to cost this community more than this building. Maybe stopping Lupin from interrupting a sale was preventing the school system from having to cut back on its lunch program. Maybe him committing a theft would only make padded pockets slimmer. Acting on speculation and anger wasn't going to do Zenigata any good. He had to clear his mind, gather nothing more than facts.

Zenigata started to his left, pushing clockwise through suits and sheath dresses. Brocades shimmered against the black-garbed crowd. He studied them for a moment, curious about their appearance. He was not a man for fashion, but he knew a thing or two. Seeing ballgowns built for tiny debutants was expected. Seeing three layers of kimonos splayed across T-shaped hangers was not.

They were pretty, yes. Not worth Lupin's travel. They definitely wouldn't fit Fujiko, either. No, he wouldn't have any use for those. Still, it was hard for Zenigata to turn from them. It wasn't every day that he saw a flicker of his home and its culture so far away.

"Detective?" Ferreira called. "How about this?"

Brown heels swiveled. They pushed bluntly through patrons, awkward and dull against sharp stilettos. He approached Ferreira, his eyes sparkling with reflected radiance. "Oh! An Opal Venus!"

"Yes." Ferreira tilted his head. "I'm surprised you've heard of them. There are only three of them left in the world."

"Yep!" Zenigata agreed. "And Lupin has one of them."

"Well, then." Wealth and composure couldn't completely hide the blush bubbling up Ferreira's face. "How about over here, then?"

The detective and foreclosure specialist walked ankle to ankle, nudging their way past a woman gleaming with envy. Zenigata couldn't blame her. At one time, the jewelry before her had to be owned by some of the most well-to-do people in the city. People that could afford pieces like ivory combs and sakura-pink pins to adorn their hair every day. Well, the gawker had to be wealthy if she made it this deep into the museum uncontested. Maybe some of those jewels would be owned by people like her again.

One glimmering piece sparkled in Ferreira's fingers. "Have you heard the legend of the Emerald Eagle? It is said that whoever owns this broach can influence the political atmosphere of the entire—"

"Yes, I have." Zenigata crossed his arms. "And I hate to tell you, but that's a fake."

"Truly?"

Zenigata nodded. "Lupin had the real one. Gave it away to a girl. Can you believe it? Not even Fujiko."

Ferreira stared at him from the corner of his eyes, his frown pressed thin.

"Fujiko's this girl Lupin's soft on," Zenigata explained. "She's got a face you can't forget. That, and—"

"I don't particularly care, Detective." Frustration did nothing to stop the deep reddening in Ferreira's cheeks. "Just don't speak too loudly about that one, alright? We'd still like to get a couple thousand for it."

Fine. Not ethical, but fair. Debts had to be paid. Not everybody could live with torn socks and instant ramen.

"Whatever Lupin's going for, it's got to be flashy. Spectacular. Something that would embarrass people with how unique it is." Idle fingers dug through itchy sideburns. "Does anything like that come to mind?"

Realization dawned like the light of a Tiffany lamp in Ferreira's face. "This way."

The path they took was overgrown, rotten with forgotten history. Eighteenth century paintings of soldiers and horses. Taxidermized birds of every color. Pendants and pearls, silver and gold, trophies from competitions between muscular men who were now no more than skeletons. Most intimidating of all were rows of photographs hanging over Zenigata's head. He desaturated as he fell in their shadows, cowed by the sheer audacity of their images.

Twenty photos. Twenty sepia-toned and framed photos.

Twenty neutral-faced nudes.

"Good gravy," Zenigata gasped.

"Quite something, aren't they?" Ferreira lifted one photo from its hook. "Have a look at this one."

Zenigata's face scrunched up. "I don't know if I should."

Never-the-less, he did. That was the duty of his job, after all. A detective couldn't shut off his senses simply out of embarrassment. He stared at the photo, trying to keep as objective as possible. A woman posed on a wooden chair. Okay. She had no pants. That was to be expected, with a photo like this. No smile, either. Maybe she couldn't, with how long it used to take to render old photos. What did she have, though? Well, there was a gentleman's vest pinned over her chest. A top hat perched on her bun. A monocle over her right eye, a cane in her left hand.

That was an image that Zenigata was all too unfortunate to know. "Is this woman supposed to be dressed like Arséne Lupin?"

"You tell me." Ferreira kept as professional as Zenigata. "From what I have heard, these were taken in the 1920s. Supposedly, they were advertisements for a burlesque club. Sometimes, they would parody popular people of the day to draw in attention."

Sure. That wasn't what Zenigata was hung up on. "I guess I just don't know who'd want to see porn of that guy. Especially, not his grandson."

"Maybe he'd prefer it destroyed." Ferreira shrugged. "Or maybe he is that much of a narcissist."

He wasn't wrong.

Saying that Ferreira was right didn't sit comfortable with Zenigata, either.

He handed the photo back, all too glad to get away from it. Women in trench coats, genie pants, flapper skirts, kimonos. Everything pulled down, hiked up. No, no, no. His brain was officially done processing all of that. He didn't come here for an antique peep show. He was here to work.

It was hard to feel like this wasn't some big prank being pulled on him. But, there was enough reality here to stick Zenigata to the floor. There were upset people, big crowds, bigger checkbooks. Fujiko's perfume was on the wind, and Lupin's card was in his coat pocket. Something was happening here. He just had to open his eyes and see it.

"Well, if I know anything about Lupin, I know what he'll want the most," Zenigata murmured.

Ferreira smirked. "And that is?"

"Attention." With that, Zenigata dug in his heels. "I'll keep my post in this room. If Lupin's going to show up anywhere tonight, it'll be here."

"Agreed," Ferreira nodded. "Help yourself to refreshments as you need. They'll be on me—just as long as you succeed."

With that, Ferreira was off, the white tails on his suit jacket smacking sharp against Zenigata's trench coat. He folded his arms, a frown settling deep into his jaw. He stared once ahead, then over his shoulder, then back again. These photos were something else. Odd. Wrong in words he could not form.

He couldn't see the truth yet, but he knew it was looking at him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you remember when the world wasn't a complete mess? No? How about cake pops, then? 
> 
> See, cake pops are a useful way to make leftover scrapes into something edible. They're like the hot dogs and dog food of bakeries. And to me, this fanfic is a cake pop of the Black Forest cake I wanted to make. I wrote and edited and chopped out subplots and characters (sorry, Yata) and raged and cried and hated myself and finally ended up with this mess of chocolate, nuts, cream, and fruit. 
> 
> And let's be real--I was real bitter when I wrote this. It's difficult to watch people getting abused in the news every day and not lose one's temper. But, hey. I realize that some people are here for the Miyazaki-era Lupin. I don't want them getting burned by my rage. So, for those at you that just want to be angry at some fictional stuff for a while, here you go. You'll get a little sweetness as time goes on, but you might not notice the aftertaste until a second re-read.
> 
> It isn't going to be perfect, sure. Cake pops aren't.


	2. Chapter 2

The clock was ticking. It thumped in Zenigata's head, pushing bidders in circles, their feet slowing with pain from high heels and dizziness from drinks. Owl-wide eyes narrowed as the caffeine in his bloodstream dipped. He slurped once against his drink, rewarded only with a messy sputter. Damn it all. He ran out of Coke.

He felt less like a world-class detective and more like a bored child stuck at his parents' after-work social club.

Boring should have been good. It just left Zenigata edgy. What was Lupin doing? What new gadget had he fixed up to help him in this heist? Where was he hiding his co-conspirators? Jigen had to be on the roof of the Single Star, watching the silent auction like a hawk over an open field brimming with bunnies. Fujiko stuck out further than her assets, but she was playing clean for now. Goemon? Texas was no place for a self-styled samurai. It was loud, brash, vulgar. He could only hide in its dust for so long, even with Lupin's help. Something would give him away, eventually. Sandals against spurs. Hakama pleats brushing long, lacy skirts. A flash of lightning between a hilt and sheath.

Zenigata gritted his teeth, chewing on his intuition.

"Can I freshen your drink, Detective?"

His irises spun clockwise. Was Fujiko really going to keep pretending she was just an attendant? Zenigata thought about slapping cuffs on her right then and there. But, no. Taking her would just make Lupin squirrelly, send his plan spiraling in wilder, unpredictable ways. So, fine. Fujiko could keep flouncing around. She was at least someone he could talk to.

Zenigata eyed her offerings. "Do you have an unopened bottle?"

Fujiko nodded. She leaned over, picking through her drink cart for a fresh Coke. Taking a drink from Fujiko was as dangerous as eating discount blowfish. No doubt, she could poison or drug him. The only comfort he had was the unbroken seal on the bottle. Even taking ice from her was a gamble, but he rolled with it. He looked bad enough skulking through the solarium. The last thing he wanted to look like was some punk teenager, scoffing the whole establishment.

Not that he had respect for any of these people. Not with the way they were flushing Vesparcita's history down the toilet.

"You know," Fujiko hummed, "I could have opened that for you."

"I know. Got to keep on my toes, though." Zenigata pointed the brim of his hat to a grandfather clock—one gathering attention and bids. "Lupin will be here in fifteen minutes."

"He will?" She gasped, twirling a strand of hair that fell from her bun. "How exciting!"

Zenigata shook his head. "You would feel that way, wouldn't you?"

Pearly teeth flashed in a devious grin. Zenigata smiled in turn. The little devil.

Thin elbows perched themselves on the silver handles of the drink cart. "What do you think he'll be after?"

"Nothing here."

That was not an answer Fujiko was expecting. "What?"

Zenigata spun his single piece of evidence in her face. She reached out to take the card, her fake eagerness feisty. He pulled it back, holding it just out of her grasp. Her pout was plump, cherry red. Zenigata smirked. If she was going to toy with him, then he could play around, too.

She tipped her head to the side, then read the card. "That's Lupin the Third's calling card, hmm?" Her hair fell back into place as she righted herself. "I didn't know he was a poet."

"Sometimes. This one's not his best work, though." With that, Zenigata tucked the card away. "Still, there's a line that sticks with me."

"Which one?"

Bombastic energy blew out his cheeks. "A spring view is worth ten thousand ryō!"

Fujiko stared at him.

So did some of the bidders behind her.

"It's a reference to a kabuki play," Zenigata explained. " _Sanmon Gosan no Kiri_."

"I see." Fujiko did what she did best—fool men with her own foolishness. "Well, that sounds like a lot of money. I'm sure something here must be worth that."

"The value doesn't matter. The play does."

Fujiko fluttered her eyelashes.

Zenigata sighed. She was really going to drag an explanation out of him, wasn't she? Even when she already knew the answer. "It's a play about Goemon Ishikawa. Sort of a Robin Hood of Japan. At least, that's how I get most Americans to understand him." He checked his breath, frustrated that he had to continue this façade. "See, Lupin's got a partner by that name. From the same family, even. So, I'm betting whatever Lupin's after, it has something to do with Goemon."

"How clever, Detective." For once, Fujiko's coo wasn't feigned.

"Yeah. Sure." He grumbled once more, then sipped his drink. "I'd feel smarter if I knew what that was."

Something cracked in Fujiko's disguise. He saw it leak, pool in the corners of her eyes. Zenigata turned his face away, ashamed. Was Fujiko screwing with him again? Was she playing 4D chess while he was stuck on a flat board? Or had something genuine broke through this farce?

Buzzing in his pocket distracted him. Zenigata lifted his cellphone from his pants, studying its alert. Ten minutes to showtime, whatever the show was. He grumbled, then lowered his wrist. Thin fingers didn't let it fall far. Zenigata looked back to Fujiko one more time, frustration rolling from his nostrils. He should have expected this. She couldn't stand being ignored, especially by a man.

"Say, Detective," she whispered.

Oh, brother. Her new tactic was starting. "Yes?"

One long nail clacked on his phone. "I noticed that you have Picnab."

Despite himself, Zenigata chuckled. "Yeah. I suppose that's more for young people, isn't it? Posting selfies and things." He launched the app, pointing to his feed. "I use it to track Lupin and his crew."

Fujiko smiled. "To get evidence, you mean."

"Sometimes, yeah."

"Well, then." Fujiko nodded to the phone. "Maybe you should keep looking."

Ice lapped through Zenigata's bloodstream. Was Fujiko Mine, the most self-serving woman in the planet, trying to help him? Why? Caffeine and carbonation bubbled in his brain. He wasn't getting any clues just staring at rich people frittering their money away. He may as well check.

"I will," Zenigata agreed. "Thanks."

With a wink and a hop, Fujiko was off.

The spectacle around him fell away as he focused on his phone. He leaned against a glass wall, tapping away at his device. Now, where was he? The last he'd seen, Lupin was eating breakfast in some greasy spoon on the outskirts of town. Confirmation of his presence was the only reason Zenigata bothered coming out here, after all. Lupin hadn't posted anything since then. Maybe he was too focused—as dedicated to his job as the detective was.

Well, Zenigata couldn't go forward. But, he could go back.

Older images soared past his eyes. Fujiko sipping a latte in the passenger's seat of Lupin's Fiat. Jigen filling up their gas tank while smoking. A club, violet and pink in UV light, Jigen nursing a scotch while Lupin leaned into his side. Oh, sure. It was always one big party with these people. Drinking, smoking, lounging around, living the high life off someone else's coin.

Patterns stacked themselves like suits in Solitaire. Lupin looking out a window, his smile weighted. Jigen smoking, staring, snarling. Fujiko here. Jigen there. Lupin everywhere.

Goemon, where?

Zenigata straightened his back. It wasn't unusual for Goemon to go off and do his own thing. Lupin didn't need Goemon to do his job, and Lupin's jobs weren't the only way Goemon trained. But, Lupin liked having him on hand for tough heists. Goemon yearned for those challenges. The companionship they brought. The whole Lupin experience, fruit and seeds and pit.

Fingers scrolled faster, staring at pictures like a child through bamboo forests. A ninja had to be there. Goemon had to be here. Gray hakama flickered in the mess of photos and videos. They snagged on Zenigata's eyes. He flipped backward, finally stopping at a thumbnail for a video. There, in pixels and data, was his ninja.

Or samurai.

Or whatever the hell Goemon was.

He was on the outskirts of a campsite, his back to a thick forest. Something was stumbling around in the brush. Zenigata could just barely make it out through the poor resolution of the zoomed video. A deer. A doe, maybe? Something lean, without antlers, relatively young. A creature that should have known better than to mess with a human.

Clearer was the cackling Lupin was struggling to hold back. "C'mon. C'mon. Do it."

Jigen's voice zinged from the other side of the phone. "Shut up, Lupin. You'll ruin it!"

"C'mon," Lupin kept pleading. "Do it, you big, stupid animal…"

The deer looked down at Goemon. Sniffed his hair.

Then licked him.

Both the doe and the samurai jolted. Lupin's voice crackled as he laughed, sending the deer bounding away in fright. Goemon was not so easily scared. It wasn’t three seconds before he cleared the distance between the forest and his filmers, sending the phone flying with a crack. Sound rustled as Lupin shrieked, then crowed.

The footage righted itself with Jigen's sigh. It focused on Lupin and Goemon rolling in overgrown grass, struggling to keep each other pinned, howling and laughing. Zenigata snorted. The lot of them really were a bunch of overgrown kids. If they just kept themselves clean, he would never have to break up their parties.

His face froze at the timestamp on the video. Two weeks ago. Two weeks since these idiots had been camping, screwing around, having themselves a good time. This was not a situation Goemon would leave. He was at peace, training, enjoying himself. How could he disappear from Lupin's photos without a single word from either man? Where had he gone?

Zenigata glared up, huffing.

His answer glared back.

No. No, no, no, no, no. Zenigata's head swiveled around. His brain tumbled, swimming in soda, electrons zapping with lightning speed. The pictures. The burlesque ads. Damn it all. Ferreira had been right and oh so wrong.

"Crap," Zenigata hissed. "Crap, crap, crap."

There was no way the last of the Single Star's treasures could be genuine. Zenigata could see that now. The resolution on the photos was too clean, digitally perfect. Their smell was neutral, no solvents or rot to detect. Colors were desaturated, filtered, unnaturally produced. Worse than that were the faces in each photo. None of them were smiling. None of them were looking at the camera. None of them wanted their photos taken.

The least of which was Goemon.

Zenigata tore the photo from the wall. How could he have not seen him before? Were three layers of silk and a white comb all it took to disguise him? Glass shuddered as Zenigata clenched the photo tighter, unable to turn a blind eye to a bared shoulder. Oh, he was used to this sort of artistic fetishization. The western world loved his country's symbols, stories, fashions, styles. It was one thing to share it willingly. To have it torn from their fingers, wrapped incorrectly, packaged and sold as this—this—

What in the hell was Zenigata even holding?

A call through the solarium was as blaring as an air horn. "Bids are closing in three minutes. Please finish writing your offers and submit your slips."

Zenigata snapped his head up. Ferreira. He may as well have been waving a red flag in a bull's face. The detective tore across the room, photo in hand, nostrils flaring. His anger went in every direction. At Ferreira. At the bidders. At himself for missing so many clues.

Fingers clenched onto white shoulders. "You lied to me."

Ferreira pivoted beneath Zenigata's grasp. "Detective?"

"You summon me, the pre-emptive expert on Lupin the Third, and expect me not to notice when you've got a picture of one of his partners framed on the frickin' wall?"

"Detective, please." Blood flushed plum-red in Ferreira's face. "You're making a scene."

Oh, he was making a scene alright. A crime scene. His fingers pointed to the first piece of his evidence—at the layers of kimonos draped near the solarium's entrance. "Those clothes." Smooth ivory went red with Zenigata's reflecting skin. "This comb." He reached out last with his final clue, shoving the photo into Ferreira's chest. "This—this!"

"And what about…" Ferreira tipped the photo back, staring at Zenigata's final accusation. "This?"

Square teeth locked tight. "You've got one minute to tell me what's going on here before Lupin flips this place like a pancake."

Zenigata watched Ferreira build his lie. It came in ruddy bricks, laying flat in narrowed eyes. Oh, he hated people like this. People that thought they were so smart—that they could talk their way out of anything. Lupin was smart. Lupin had the right tools, the right people, the right defense. It was rare that any man could do what Lupin did.

"Fine." The confession that came out of Ferreira was clipped, bent. "The photos are fakes."

"Do you think I care about that?" Zenigata snapped. "You've got a missing man in your freaky sex photos! Do you know what the hell that looks like?"

"Advertisements, Detective."

"That's not the point!" If the damn photo wasn't evidence, Zenigata would have smashed it into the ground. "I want to know who took these, when they took these, and where the people in these photos are! Because none of them looks a damn bit happy to be in them, and I think there's a pretty good reason for that!"

Ferreira drew his head back. "Detective Zenigata, what are you accusing me of?"

"Obstructing my investigation, for one thing!" Zenigata spat. "How in the hell am I supposed to protect anybody here when you're lying to me?"

Walls came up in Ferreira's face once more. Zenigata could feel each brick clunk into place with his pounding heart. Worse yet were thunks from miles away, metal crashing against metal. Bells were ringing. Midnight was coming. So was Lupin. And for once, maybe Zenigata was glad to have him show up.

A noble chin lowered, unleashing a serpent's hiss. "We don't have time for your wild speculations, Zenigata."

"You're right," the detective agreed. "We don't."

Not with the last stroke of midnight ringing and glass shattering.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Real asshole hours start now.

Satan flew in on smokey wings.

Drunk laughter turned to screams. People scrambled, legs stumbling, muscle worn down by time and disrepair now thrown into full throttle. Shards of glass bounced off Zenigata's hat. He brushed what remained, less fearful and more annoyed with the spider that wound down from the solarium's ceiling. Many people had a myriad of reasons to fear the black eyes that glittered red from sparking gunpowder. Death himself didn't have the range of the marksman smirking before Zenigata.

How charming it was to be greeted with a smile from such rotten teeth. "Hi there, Pops!"

With that, Daisuke Jigen dispensed of his pleasantries.

He brushed them aside with a pop from his hip. It wasn't his standard .357 Magnum that tore through the air. What lobbed out fell heavy, splattered in smoke. Zenigata snagged Ferreira's arm, dragging the frozen fop from the solarium. He was in no mood to discover precisely what Jigen was spraying around the room. But, if the uncharacteristic goggles strapped to his face were any indication, he did not want that crap getting in his eyes.

Zenigata's brain chugged faster than his legs. This was not what he was expecting. Jigen showing up? Absolutely. That man was the bass to Lupin's lead. But, in the solarium? Wasn't that what Lupin was trying to rob? Why wouldn't he be the one leading their attack?

Just what hairbrained plan did Lupin have this time?

People were in danger. The detective had to keep that in mind. With a sharp yank, he dragged Ferreira closer to his side. "We've got to get everyone evacuated from the site. Maybe find a way to neutralize that stuff Jigen's spraying." He looked over his head, swiveling around. "Does this place have any kind of sprinkler system? Maybe that would help."

"And ruin our inventory!" Ferreira huffed. "Don't you have a gun? Just shoot them!"

"That's not how I work!" Zenigata growled back. "These people aren't completely irrational! I've just got to get them calmed down."

Ferreira rolled his eyes. "They're going to get shot, one way or another. Do them a favor and do it your—argh!"

Thin fingers snatched Ferreira by the throat. Another blast of glass sent shock snapping through Zenigata's arms. Fujiko went feral. Her smirk cut as bad as the shattered champagne bottle she held to Ferreira's neck.

Zenigata raised his hands. "Come on, Fujiko. Let him go."

"Sorry, Pops. We've got business to do with this one." She tilted her head against Ferreira's cheek, her demure smile demonic. "But, let's take a raincheck on this date, okay?"

Fujiko had a lot on Zenigata—beauty, charisma, grace. What he had on her was twenty kilograms. All it took was one hand on her wrist and a flick of his own, and she was sailing over marble floors. She shrieked as she hit the floor, fingers clutching her skull instead of glass. Zenigata flinched. His toss was improper, too rough. But, he'd gotten the job done. Ferreira was safe, and Fujiko was subdued.

With two metal clicks, Zenigata handcuffed her. "Alright, Miss Mine. You're under arrest!"

She jerked her head back, indignant.

Her wig fell off.

Zenigata stared first at the floor, then at the back of her head. Nothing glamorous was kept pinned back. It was shorn down, zigzagging out, breaking through latex along her jawline. Plump breasts were set askew, one dropping out of the side of her outfit and onto the ground with a sloppy plop. The detective gawked, then reached for her chin. With a single yank, he undid the last of the failing disguise.

His jaw hit the ground as hard as his captive's head. "Lupin?!"

"Hey, Pops." The boisterous boom in Lupin's voice went dull, sheepish. "Nice to see you. Loved our little chat earlier tonight."

Zenigata was used to Lupin flipping his world upside-down. Not like this. He should have been picking at his handcuffs, dislocating his joints, pulling himself into another dimension to escape Zenigata. What in the hell was he doing, sitting in the detective's shadow? What possible tactical advantage could Lupin have in such a situation?

Ferreira was less than concerned about Lupin's state. Less than thankful for Zenigata's help, as well. "What is this, Detective? Are you soft on these criminals?"

"I am not," Zenigata grumped.

Lupin leaned over, his smile less loopy from joy and more from an almost-certain concussion. "Like a teddy bear!"

"I am not!" Good gravy! Did every last person in this museum have to disobey him? Well, if Zenigata had a chance to stop Jigen, it was now. "Daisuke Jigen, you get your ass out here! I've got your boss!"

A cackle bounced from the broken solarium, rebounding in marble halls. "You can have the first dance with him tonight, Pops!"

Zenigata's face fell. Just why did the whole lot of them have to be assholes?

Ferreira was just as fed up with the situation. "I've had enough of this." He stomped forward, finding police with their attention torn in two directions. His barks were enough to stop them from spinning around like mindless automatons. "Are you people here to help us or not? Get over here and help us subdue these criminals!"

One nervous face glanced outside of the museum, then back at Ferreira. "What about the protestors?"

"Leave that to the guards outside!" Ferreira snapped. "Or let them come in here and get shot. I don't care!"

That was more than Zenigata wanted to hear. He scooped Lupin up from the floor, careful as he brought the thief into the main lobby of the museum. His gait was swaying, his legs taxed from holding his heavy head up. A twinge twisted Zenigata's guts as Vesparcita cops pulled Lupin from him, lowering him onto a bench. He'd gone too far. Yeah, Lupin was relatively okay, but he still took a hard blow. Excessive force was inexcusable, especially for a man of principles.

Lupin flashed him a smirk, his confidence intact.

It dropped with a flash of light in his ear.

Zenigata tilted his head, watching as Lupin bonked his head against his shoulder. He had some kind of transmitter tucked into his left ear. Well, that made sense. He didn't need to henpeck his cohorts through their schemes, but he did need to keep talking. Apparently, someone needed to talk back.

"Hey, Fujiko." Lupin crossed his legs, gossiping like a teenaged girl even under arrest. "How's it going?"

Between the pop of noise in his ear and the sudden drop in Lupin's face, Zenigata could guess not very well.

The thief sat up. "What do you mean it's not working?"

Zenigata groaned. He couldn't let Lupin continue his crimes right under his nose. With a pinch and a pluck, Zenigata took the earpiece from Lupin. He wiped a thumb around its cushion, then stuck it into his right ear. Only the gods knew what infections he just introduced into his body from that gross little man. This wasn't the time to worry about that. He had a job to do.

Fujiko continued her rant, heedless of the shift at the other end of the line. "—no scanner! How in the hell am I supposed to use a keycard on a number pad, Lupin?"

"Fujiko Mine," Zenigata rumbled, "Just what are you doing?"

"Detective! Hello!" With no shame came no fear. "When did you pick up?"

Oh, sure. She just had to treat a crime like a social call. "A few seconds ago." He kept his tone gruff, his warning iron tough. "I would recommend that you stop whatever you are doing and leave the premises immediately."

"It's sweet that you care, Pops." She sang softly, as heedless to his threat as a dove. "I just have to pick up one little thing, and I'll be on my way."

Zenigata shook his head. What else was he expecting her to do? Comply? "Fujiko, I already have Lupin. Don't make me come get you, too."

"Well, then!" Fujiko chirped. "Definitely don't come to the loading bay. You'll find nothing there for sure!"

With that, she flipped off his signal, sending nothing further than static.

An anvil dropped in his intestines. Fujiko may as well have hiked up her skirt and slapped her ass. Why the taunting? Was it a misdirection? A trap? Something he actually had to see?

Well, there was only one way to find out. "Where's the loading bay for this place?"

Ragged panic flashed across a sleek face.

The only threat stopping Zenigata from piledriving Ferreira like he had Lupin was the fear of losing his badge. "Do you want these people arrested or not?"

"Fine." Ferreira snapped to life, shaking his head. He greased his hair back, then flipped his fingers at two of the cops guarding Lupin. "Follow us, if you would. It seems you have more work to do."

Clattering shoes struck out. They passed through marble galleries, beyond the smokey solarium, spanning into paths barred off from public entry. Wooden crates sat in heavy clumps, garbage left on their tops. A stuffed bear with a broken claw raked Zenigata. He twisted his shoulder around it. What a mess. This museum's fate. His operation. Lupin's schemes. All of it.

The last scrap of wealth loomed in their way. A metal door was pinned shut, its entrance locked by a tiny sensor. Ferreira drew a card out of his jacket, then tapped it against the door. The sensor wasn't green for more than a millisecond before Zenigata slammed himself through. If he thought he was going to see something as garish and flashy as the rest of the auction, he was sorely mistaken. All that was left behind the door was cold, dirty business.

Tile cut to cement. That fell all too quickly to earthen floors. Zenigata raced deeper into the loading bay, filtering through as many facts as he could. Three of the walls were tin, one brick—the one to his back. Old metal sunk divots in the ground. This was probably a stop for a train station before being converted into a glorified garage. There were crates, trucks, a semi-trailer. The main garage door was closed, its smaller access pushed open. Moonlight cut a path through grimy, plastic windows, its glimmer ending at the tip of a blade.

There, with fiery hair and burning rage, was the real Fujiko Mine.

In her hands was indignation.

The cops behind him didn't realize the magnitude of what they were seeing. "Drop your weapon!"

Fujiko was wild, unpredictable, as likely to clean one's wounds as she was to cause them. In the right hands, Zantetsuken could level mountains. Their rage was unified, but their talents were not. The best they could do to crack into the semi-trailer was leave gouges in metal peeling like butter. She stared at Zenigata as she slid the katana back into its sheath, her pout as sweet as candy. "You just couldn't cut a cute girl a break, could you?"

Her lips said one thing. Her eyes said another.

Her lashes teased him with the truth.

Thin wrists lifted as one of the cops snared Fujiko. The other called into his radio, repeating the brief flash of events to his comrades. Zenigata picked up what fell flat, lifeless. Something felt wrong about leaving Zantetsuken lying on the ground. It was an enemy's weapon, sure. It was also a lonesome, noble thing. The detective tucked it against his hip, letting it come to rest in a proper spot.

A weight greater than the sword fell upon him. Zenigata tensed his fingers on the katana's bare tsuka. He could feel the hand that wasn't there, the heat that fell cold. So, this was why Lupin and his crew were unhinged tonight. Wherever Goemon was, there went their hearts. What a jagged, messy path that left behind.

Sweet lips smirked. "Be good to it, will you?"

"Of course." With that, Zenigata nodded towards the cops restraining Fujiko. "Take her up front. Her boyfriend will be waiting for her."

Fujiko raised her head, proud even in her defeat. "I have plenty of men waiting for me, Detective."

Zenigata sighed. "Behave yourself, would you?"

She smiled again. "Make me."

An awkward gasp rushed out of Fujiko as the cops dragged her away from the trailer. Zenigata frowned, shaking his head at the mess she left behind. He thought she was better than this. Not in terms of morality, of course. Skill. That she had wanted into that trailer so badly, that she would use such raw force to try and chop it open—

"Oh, Detective?"

He shook his head. There really was no ignoring Fujiko, even as she was being yanked away like a bombing vaudeville act. "Yes?"

"Why don't you and Mister Ferreira check the merchandise in there," Fujiko sneered. "You know. Make sure I didn't damage anything."

There was no ignoring how Ferreira's bronzed glow went dead white.

A smile fought itself onto Zenigata's face. "Fujiko, quit making trouble for me."

Her wink was as good as a checkmate.

The last flicker of joy snuffed out with a slamming door. Zenigata steadied himself in the silence, letting the pulse of dim, rattling fluorescent tubes serve as his sun. Ferreira took the same time to breathe, readjusting his bolo tie. His smile was stressed, peeling like lead paint. No, this night hadn't been good for him.

Zenigata was going to make it a lot worse.

"Well, Ferreira?" He nodded towards the trailer's lock. "What's the passcode?" 

"Don't worry yourself with that." Ferreira waved off his request. "The gouges she left don't seem to be that deep. I'm sure everything in there is fine."

"I hope that's the case." Zenigata let his left hand rest on Zantetsuken, squeezing its tsuka like the hand of a lost child. "But, I need to see what Lupin and his men were after. For my report, you know."

Ferreira's eyes narrowed.

The detective tipped his head. "You wouldn't want to obstruct justice, now, would you?"

Zenigata was expecting half a dozen reactions. For Ferreira to ask him for a warrant. For him to stay silent. For him to leave. To run. To the professional's credit, he stayed firm, planted. His position in life was not one that rewarded cowardice.

With a light smile and a sigh, Ferreira gave him what he wanted. "Seven zero four six five."

Heavy shoes clambered up the trailer's rear guard. Zenigata could not punch those digits in fast enough. Locks squealed as steel rods pulled up, flaked metal from Fujiko's attack leaving debris snarled in the retraction. Zenigata pushed up what stuck, then yanked the doors back. Darkness. Heat. A skunked, earthy stench. It all struck him at once.

He blinked.

So did the shadows.

Nerves in his face went numb. An empty sensation overtook him, shielding his heart before it could tear in two. It came not from practice, but experience. Zenigata was used to seeing the worst in society. Defilement, torture, murder. If he was too forgiving to Lupin, it was because he knew how terrible people could really be. How all too common it was for one person to lose their humanity and then steal it from others.

He kept his thoughts clinical, taking quiet inventory over what shuddered before him. Humans. Twenty. Adults. Mostly women. Dirty. Tired. Lined against the walls. Restrained. Plastic ties around wrists. Hands behind back. Cloth gags in mouth. Upset. Sobbing. Frightened. Panicking.

So was he.

Zenigata breathed in, focusing on what broke him the least. Adult. Male. Late twenties, early thirties. Sweat-stained. Stubbled. Frustrated. Unwilling to look Zenigata in the eye. Of course not. The detective understood. A samurai was never supposed to let an enemy take them alive. He had fought the same issues before, when Goemon was in his own custody. But, damn it. He'd tried his best for the man. He didn't want his prisoners—any criminal—to be treated like this.

Humanity came back to Zenigata. He was finally able to use it. "Mister Ferreira—"

A single metal click silenced him.

Zenigata looked over his shoulder. He smiled, cursing himself. He'd forgotten the golden rule about working with Americans. They had guns. They loved guns. They especially loved guns in Texas. Nothing as friendly as a Walther P38 or a .357 Magnum was at his back. Just a cold, unfeeling Colt in the hands of a cold, unfeeling man.

A dark chuckle escaped the detective. "What are we doing, Ferreira?"

The professional kept professional. "Go to the back."

"You know, Mister Ferreira." Zenigata turned around slowly, careful as he readjusted his stance. "I don't think you'll get a lot of money for a mug like mine."

"That is not my plan for you. And even if it were?" Ferreira shrugged. "I'm willing to take a loss on this."

Zenigata wasn't.

Violence flashed. It sent color splattering through the abyss of the semi-trailer. Brown and tan as Zenigata drew up his right arm, seeking Ferreira's wrist. White fire blasting from a metal mouth. Red gore smacking the wall. Cotton muted the howls of all but one. The last cry fell as limp as the detective's arm, everything curling into the wound perforating Zenigata's shoulder.

Blood shimmered in steel eyes, dripping with the same heat that fell down the walls. "Should we try this again, Detective?"

Despite the mash of gore trailing down his chest, the shivering and weeping of those around him, Zenigata kept smiling. Oh, was Ferreira an idiot. There may be a gun to his back. The strength in him might be literally pouring out of his body. But, there was a way out of this. There was still one lock left to be undone, one key in his possession. All he had to do was get it in place and let it click.

With slow, controlled steps, Zenigata began his march.


	4. Chapter 4

Flat heels locked along corrugated metal. A left hand rose. A right hadn't didn't—couldn't. Zenigata walked carefully, minding not to tread on the bodies of those bound around him. He sought sharp eyes in the dark. Zenigata was no telepath. Neither was his partner in this peril. But, at the slightest flicker of black eyes, Zenigata knew his message had been sent.

The war was already over. The battle just had to be fought.

"Well, Detective Zenigata." The victor presumptive at his back was all too happy to drag out his suffering. "What would you put in your report about this?"

"Let's see. Human trafficking? Shooting an officer?" Zenigata's head bobbed further than he anticipated. Blood loss was already getting to him. "I'd say you'd be in for a bad time. Maybe for the rest of your life."

Ferreira shrugged. Lucky bastard, that he could. "Fair."

"How about you, then?" Zenigata asked. "How…how's this going to go for you?"

"Simply enough." A silver muzzle flickered at his side. "I put you in the back. Put you in your own cuffs, of course. Take your sword. You stay back here and bleed out while I tend to the rest of my guests. I call in a couple favors from friends. We clean this all up. Take inventory. Then, we call it a night."

Zenigata shook his head, dripping sweat, smiling. "Friends, huh?"

Ferreira's smile slithered over his wounded shoulder. "Wish you had some now, hmm?"

Oh, he did. More importantly, Goemon did.

Wide eyes faltered under draining strength. Zenigata stared at the slight samurai just paces away from him. When he spoke, he wasn't sure who he was even addressing. "Lupin will be back."

"For that one." Ferreira agreed. "I know. I would shoot him right now, if he wasn't such a hot commodity. There's quite a few contenders gunning for him. I'm eager to see how those bids play out."

Disgust rolled down Zenigata's chin. "They're—they're not going to forgive this, you know. Not for him. Maybe, not for me, either."

"I don't care, Detective," Ferreira tutted. "No one really does."

Oh, he was wrong. So wrong.

Zenigata firmed his chin. He looked at the victims cowering around him, the dirt and sweat that marred them. They didn't come out of nowhere. They weren't weeds popping from cracks in cement paths. People were looking for them. From outside, screaming in as many tongues as they had. From within, burdened with badges and bureaucracy. From the front lobby, smeared in make-up and latex, willing to do anything it took to do a job right.

People cared.

So did a bastard like Zenigata.

For some people, their weapon of choice was a gun. For others, a sword. For Zenigata, it was his own body. Such a weapon was not in shape for the feats he normally pulled, for snatching criminals out of the air and burying them on their own heads. He still had his legs. Elbows. Mind.

He rallied everything in him, slamming backwards into his captor.

Ferreira stumbled, snarled. The hit did little to harm him. That was not the point. Getting space and time was. All Zenigata needed to do was throw open his trench coat. His true weapon took his invitation, unsheathing himself.

There was a union between Goemon and Zantetsuken that went beyond artistry, an intimacy deeper than love. In his right hand. His left. His teeth. It did not matter that his hands were bound behind his back, that his mouth was tied. If he had no wrist to flex, then his whole body would be that fulcrum. For Zantetsuken, Goemon would be anything the katana needed.

He gripped Zantetsuken behind his back. Twisted over his shoulder. Chopped down.

The Colt that had taken Zenigata's strength fell in many pieces onto the trailer's floor.

So did Ferreira's fingers. 

The trailer rang out as Ferreira collapsed, the metal of his jewelry crackling like thunder after lightning. Babbling screams and blood continued the rain, their fall sending captives scuttling for dry land. Goemon stood still. His shoulders could not. What remained steadfast in Zenigata reached out, taking the samurai by his left shoulder. The touch was enough to pull the storm from his soul, the vengeance lingering in bloodshot eyes.

"Here." Zenigata reached down, tapping on Zantetsuken's pommel. "Let me."

For one moment more, Goemon trusted him. He let the detective take his sword, blood and sweat sliding between their fingers. A single pull across plastic bonds freed Goemon's wrists. He reached back, gentle, but firm in his grip. Zenigata let him have Zantetsuken back. He was in no mood to fight Goemon. Certainly, no shape.

Florescent light and moonglow turned upon Zantetsuken as it came up one more time over Ferreira's face.

The professional's appraisal of the situation was accurate. "Can't—can't say I didn't have this coming."

Goemon nodded in agreement, then cracked him in the head with the back of his sword.

Violence fell. With it went an aching silence. Moans quivered off metal walls, slim shoulders quivering. Such a small motion was enough to crack the cold mask Goemon wore. He kneeled beside his fellow captives, laying his blade before them. The same hands that drew blood now pulled cloth from mouths, snipped plastic bonds, rested against soft temples and dark tresses.

"It is done," Goemon whispered to them. "We may cry now."

And some did.

Some did more than that.

One woman bolted, running for the cold, clean air outside of the trailer. Another turned, kicking at the slumped fop lying at their feet. More wept, shrieked, made every kind of noise as they broke free. Zenigata smirked. This was an actual party, not the mess left in the gutted museum. There was joy to be had here. Reasons to celebrate. 

Zenigata had nothing to spare. No laughter. No tears. Too much was already running from him. He sat down, taking a moment to breathe. Cunning eyes stared at what ran thicker than tears. Bloodlust turned to fear. Goemon drew into his robes, tearing stiff sarashi from his side. The binding was stained, blotted with more sweat than blood. It was as good of a bandage as Zenigata was going to get for now.

The detective lulled, shock creeping its way down his body. "Thanks."

"Consider it nothing." A smooth slide of metal against grimy fabric and a short thrust put Zantetsuken to rest. "Do you need—"

"Don't worry about me." Zenigata twisted the sarashi, gasping as it pulled tight against his injury. "Lupin and Fujiko are in the lobby. The police have them in custody. Probably Jigen as well, by now." Broad hands fell back, supporting a drooping body. "You should go turn yourself in, too."

The smile Goemon flashed was genuine. His words, insincere. "Of course."

With a bow and a flutter of fabric, the samurai was gone.

A weary head shook too far. The last of the caffeine in Zenigata's bloodstream poured out of his wound. He felt through his coat with his left hand, pulling another hunk of metal free. These cuffs probably should have gone on Goemon. They fit Ferreira just as well. With a click, Zenigata bound what was left of Ferreira's bloodied hands. He grumbled, his job left undone. There would be no imprisoning a crook like this if he were dead. He'd have to get someone in to help with his damage, too.

Zenigata thumped out of the trailer, plopping onto the dirty ground with unsteady legs. One victim propped him up, pulled him over to cement stairs. A second pressed her hand against his wound, slowing what seeped through cotton with a scrap of her skirt. He tapped around his body, searching for his last tool. Another victim came forward, plucking his radio from his coat.

"Thanks." With a squeeze of his hand, he was back on duty. "This is Detective Zenigata. I need backup in the loading bay."

Rattling static was as sweet as an angel singing. "Copy that. What happened?"

"There was a hostage situation. It's been resolved, but I've got a lot of people who need help getting home." He lulled his head back, his hat popping off his greasy hair. "Also, I've been shot."

"That's something you should lead with, Detective," his contact blipped back.

Zenigata nodded, a bit too out of it to care if the officer could see him moving or not. "Might need to get medical support for Mister Ferreira as well. Then, a jail cell."

The cop at the other end of the line was quiet for a second too long. "Detective Zenigata, how much blood have you lost?"

"Probably more than I should have," he admitted. "Oh! And while I'm thinking about it. If you see a samurai out there, don't shoot at him."

"What do you mean a—" was all the cop got out before he started screaming.

Zenigata dropped the radio. It would be so easy just to leave things there, let the cops of Vesparcita clean up their own mess while he checked out from blood loss or fatigue. However, it was all too apparent that they were not up for the task. He rolled up, untucking his cellphone from his side. A gentleman thief did not rest until his job was done, and neither did a consummate detective.

"Well, then." Zenigata swiped his hand over his phone, smearing blood on it as he unlocked it. "Anybody want to start giving me their testimony?"

* * *

A part of Zenigata wished this whole disaster of a night was just a movie.

Not any kind of movie. An old Western. One that would fit right here in Texas. One where he'd wave farewell to the local deputy, give a nod to the woman who deserved better than he could give, jump on a Palomino and ride into the sunset. Wouldn't that be nice? Short. Bittersweet. Resolved.

But, nope. Here he was, sitting in the back of an ambulance with an IV in one hand and a coffee in the other, watching the whole city fall apart.

Plastic yellow lines didn't stop people from staring. Some of the protestors from last night were keeping their post, faces wane and eyes hungry. Speculations on where the others went troubled him. Maybe they behaved themselves. Maybe they went and threw a crowbar through an electronics store window. Maybe, just maybe, two siblings were lucky, finally able to meet after weeks apart. Zenigata could only hope something that good would come true.

Agencies of all sorts were mixing within the ruined carapace of the Single Star Museum. State troopers. FBI. Interpol. Local. It was a rat's nest of a case, all the more mucked up by who Ferreira and his associates took. Some of the victims came forward, bold, proud, eager to talk. Others laid low, fearing for some penalty from their past to boomerang around and strike them down. Goemon was gone. So was his picture. Without either man or evidence to link back to Ferreira, it was unlikely that any international criminal charges would stick.

But, Goemon still got his justice. It was just in his own way.

Numb fingers drew his cellphone. Yes, he should be in a hospital. Yes, he should be on bedrest. Zenigata was in no mood for talk like that. He may be off the front lines for a while, but he was by no means out of the fight. He'd be back in that museum, dusting for fingerprints and scooping up blood samples when the other clubs wanted him. In the meantime, he would be sitting here, scrolling through his phone, collecting evidence in his own way.

And wasn't Lupin pleased as punch to give it to him.

Sparkling emojis in Picnab marked new photos. Zenigata scrolled backwards with them, watching a red dawn sink back into a murky night. Four people huddled together in bed, plates of breakfast foods swiped from a cheap buffet, each poking and prodding at what they had stolen. One step back, and Jigen was helping Goemon shave, all too clearly teasing the samurai about what he could not grow. One more, and they were all back in the Fiat, Lupin sprawled like a spider monkey over Goemon as they slept.

Once more he pulled, finding a brand-new video.

One titled "Thanks, Pops!"

As soon as Zenigata had his finger on the play button, Lupin squealed like a jacked car tearing from a parking garage. " _Minna, konbanwa!_ Guess who's back?"

With a waggle of the cellphone, Lupin was all too proud to present the scruffy samurai packed into the backseat with him.

There was no mistaking the sweetness with which Lupin sang. "We missed you, baby."

A stoic hand waved him off. It could not hide the soft smile Goemon carried. Pinched lips were met with a cigarette from the back seat, flame from the front. Goemon was not a habitual smoker. The cigarette wasn't meant to relieve just him. It was all Lupin and Jigen could offer for comfort, fleeing on dark roads so late into the night.

Fujiko was the only one with her head still on straight. She snapped Jigen's lighter closed, then swatted his arm into the front seat. "Focus on driving! We don't need you to swerve off the road and hit a cactus or something!"

"You know," Jigen huffed, "if I wanted to be abused like this, I'd go drive a cab in Brooklyn."

"C'mon, kids. Be nice." Lupin refocused the camera, letting it settle on Goemon once more. "Been a while, huh?"

Goemon hummed through the cigarette, its end bobbing with his nod.

"Wanna tell my followers what's all been happening?"

Some inner ember burned Goemon's cheeks pink. "No."

"Ah, c'mon, sweetheart. We went through a lot of trouble to get you back." Fujiko dropped her animosity like chewing gum out the side of their vehicle. "And Lupin doesn't put on fancy little outfits for just anyone, you know."

"Hey, don't be jealous of how fabulous I look in this." He flashed the phone down, bouncing once off his ruined disguise before pulling it back into focus. "Although, not nearly as ravishing as you looked in this, Goemon."

Zenigata could have throttled that little chimpanzee. There, dangling between his fingers, was the so-called burlesque ad of Goemon Ishikawa XIII. It did not last long. Not within the samurai's reach. The footage flashed white, Goemon's strike so fast that it couldn't be capture properly by technology. It left his obscene photo as nothing more than powder in Lupin's lap.

"Easy with that!" Lupin scolded him. "You're out of practice."

Goemon smirked, clearly unapologetic.

His employer eased back, brushing away the debris. "Anyway, Fujiko's right. You owe us a story, pal. Doubly so for almost shredding my hand."

A fine eyebrow lifted. "Must I?"

"I mean, if for nobody else, tell it for Zenigata," Lupin urged. "He's constantly stalking us online, anyway. Might as well give him some evidence for his case, right?"

Maybe Zenigata would have been pissed if getting angry would have done anything. Barring time and space travel, there was nothing he could do to get into that car and thwack Lupin in the head. He sighed, keeping an open mind. Perhaps this could be admitted for something. It'd be exceedingly questionable, likely to get tossed, but what the hell. Outside of Ferreira's missing fingers, it was the best proof he had of their little confrontation.

"I owe Zenigata that much, I suppose." Goemon leaned into Zantetsuken's sheath, cuddling it like a stuffed animal. "Very well. This started about two weeks ago, during your operation to pick up that Japonisme painting."

"Hey, hey, hey!" Lupin yipped. "Don't give him evidence against me!"

Goemon shrugged. He let the detail slide. "You had me stationed outside the Single Star Museum for surveillance. During that time, there were protests building outside. There were several complaints, chief among them the sale of regional iconography to cover mounting debts and the treatment of citizens arrested in previous protests."

A dark bark came from the driver's seat. "No shit."

"The police response to their presence was overwhelming. Flashbangs, tear gas, rubber bullets. I could handle the latter, but the noise and chemicals were too much." Goemon's head tipped, his thoughts rolling with it. "When someone took me, I had assumed it was the police. But…well. I suppose it is apparent now what Ferreira and his associates did with me." 

"Yeah." Jigen's snarl was tar black. "Sick freak."

"Dumb freak, too," Lupin added. "If any of us should be sold off for something like that, it should be Fujiko!"

"Aw, Lupin." It took Fujiko a few seconds too long to process what he was saying. "You're so—wait! Are you trying to make kidnapping and human trafficking sound romantic?"

"No, no, Fujiko!" Lupin's voice pitched up, his legs tensing behind the cellphone's lens. "But, I mean, come on. We're all nines and tens here, but you're, like, infinite! Uncountably beautiful!"

"An irrational number, too," Jigen sniped.

Fujiko's slaps bounced back and forth between driver and passenger. "You! Two! Are! Such! Creeps!"

"Ah, c'mon, Fujiko! Take it easy on me!" Lupin begged. "Pops already knocked my block off!"

Zenigata smiled. Damn right, he did. He'd do it again, too. Perhaps not in the next month or so, but soon enough. Maybe Lupin had squirmed his way out of captivity once again, but Zenigata wasn't going to count this as a loss. Not when so much good had come out of the situation.

He was surprised to find his name on another's mind. "We were fortunate that Zenigata was there, tonight."

Jigen snorted. "He blew our whole operation! We're friggen' lucky we got away at all!"

Of all the people Zenigata didn't want to defend him, it was Lupin. "Well, you can't blame a man for doing his job, Jigen." 

"Indeed." Goemon leaned against the tsuka of his sword, its brace stronger than his neck. "Many owe him for his service tonight."

"Ah, crap in a hat." Smoke rolled like dragon's breath from the front seat. "Lupin, check him again. He's being mushy."

Lupin groaned right into the cellphone's mike. "I checked him three times already! He's fine!"

"Well, I'd love to get back there and play doctor on your behalf," Jigen hissed, "but I'm driving, you prick!"

"Fine! Okay! Geez!" Lupin's voice softened, his fingers beckoning Goemon to his side. "C'mere. Let me get another look at you. Make sure your brain isn't as smushed as mine."

Sharp eyelashes softened. "No cameras."

"Right," Lupin agreed. "No cameras."

And with that, the detective's view into the thieves' night was gone.

Muscle stayed firm on Zenigata's face. He rubbed his cheek with his left hand, surprised to find the smile that remained. Oh, those twerps. They were a literal disaster, the sort of people that weathermen should name storms after. It was traitorous to feel happy for them, to know that they were safe and sound. He couldn't stay mad at them. Not for last night—for taking what was theirs.

This information could be damning. He could stare at it until his eyes spun like the Earth, rotating from inside his skull and back. The facts were these: Zenigata was tired. Injured. So was Lupin and his crew. They all needed a break. He had to wrap up whatever was left with this case. That came first. Then, when Lupin got a wild hair up his ass again, they could continue this tango.

Detective Zenigata might have been a bastard, but he wasn't a complete scoundrel.

Neither were they.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for hanging in there with this piece!
> 
> I'm hoping that this is one of those stories that holds up well on a second re-read. Like, it adds different color to certain parts without puncturing too many holes in the canvas. I don't like the practice of audience deception/unreliable narration for the most part, but I hope my execution of that style worked. Or, at the very least, that it didn't come off as malicious. This is the kind of series to play around with such a style, after all!
> 
> I wish I had more to say, but mostly, I'm drained. Also, possibly having an allergy attack. Wee. Thanks again!


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